


found someone to carry me home

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Troubles & Gay Feelings, Fluff (then angst then fluff), Holidays, Hospitals, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: Flint is having a terrible, awful, horrible week.It’s three days until Christmas, his husband is in the hospital, he’s running on about an hour of sleep, Miranda is still off the grid and she doesn’t know that her best friend has been hit by a fucking car, and the barista across the road from the hospital seems intent on making his very presence so much more worse than those other points.Said barista slides a cappuccino across the counter - and it’s clearly not Flint’s order, not with that amount of whipped cream, never mind the ‘James’ scrawled down the side of the cup - and without releasing the cardboard cup, he says, “Say, does anyone ever call you Jimmy?”





	found someone to carry me home

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a holiday season fic and it IS, just three months late
> 
> i'd like to thank the tropes of "oh no my car broke down, guess i'm trapped in here with you" and james "i have a type and it's idiots who either get hit by cars or i kind of want to hit with a car sometimes" flint 
> 
> (title from fun. because apparently, my music tastes died in 2010)

Flint is having a terrible, awful, _horrible_  week. 

 

It’s three days until Christmas, his husband is in the hospital, he’s running on about an hour of sleep, Miranda is still off the grid and _she_ doesn’t know that her best friend has been hit by a _fucking_ car, and the barista across the road from the hospital seems intent on making his very presence _so much more worse_ than those other points.

 

Said barista slides a cappuccino across the counter - and it’s clearly not Flint’s order, not with _that_  amount of whipped cream, never mind the ‘James’ scrawled down the side of the cup - and without releasing the cardboard cup, he says, “Say, does anyone ever call you Jimmy?”

 

Flint blinks once, then again, as the man seems content on waiting for a reply. He reminds himself that he won’t be able to visit Thomas in the hospital if he lands himself in a holding cell again as he says, “No.” 

 

“You look like a Jimmy.”

 

“I’m not.” 

 

“Can I call you Jimmy?”

 

“Why would you do that?” 

 

“Because you’re handsome, and I like to know the names of my handsome customers,” the barista says, finally letting the cup free so that Flint can grab it. “You know, very standard, official business procedure." 

 

Flint squints down at it. “I didn’t ask for whipped cream,” he tells him, though Thomas might call his tone  _accusing._

 

“On the house. You looked like you could use something sweet,” the man says, and Jesus Christ, he can see the ring on Flint’s finger, can’t he? “Are you a sweet man, Not-Jimmy?”

 

Flint just turns around and leaves the store. He’ll choke down the burnt hospital cafeteria coffee from here on out, thanks. 

 

•••

 

Only when he gets back to the hospital, the door to Thomas’s room is slightly ajar. He pushes it fully open, and when he sees the empty bed, there’s a moment when panic rushes over him again, and he can’t find sense to do much more than stare at the wrinkled, empty sheets. 

 

Luckily, there’s a nurse who clears her throat behind him rather than touch him. “Mr. Flint? We took your husband down for another round of x-rays,” she says, and when Flint turns to her quickly, she raises her eyebrow ever so slightly. “He was most insistent on me telling you so you didn’t worry.” 

 

Flint lets out a long breath. “Another? Is something wrong?” 

 

“It’s just a precautionary step, to see if there needs to be any further surgeries,” she says soothingly. Coffee drips down his fingers, and he realizes he’s holding the cup too tightly. “Can I  -  get you a towel?”

 

“Sorry,” Flint says belatedly, and she goes by and opens a cabinet to get him one. He mops down his hand, then the floor with the cloth she hands him. “Nothing’s changed, though?”

 

“He’s still stable, and he’ll be back in half an hour at most,” she tells him. Now that the panic has receded just a bit, Flint recognizes her as the one who had been working when he had first gotten the call that Thomas had been in an accident  -  she might have even been the one to throw an arm out to stop him from pushing through, even when he had been snarling _let me in, that’s my husband -_ “You can wait in here until they bring him back.”

 

“Thank you,” he says, and when she leaves, Flint collapses in the chair he had slept in last night. He’s not in the mood for coffee, not anymore, and he sets it on the ground beside him, as he waits for Thomas to come back. 

 

He hates the holidays. 

 

•••

 

It had been a pedestrian accident. By what Flint had gleaned and guessed, yesterday Thomas had been catching the last few pages of his book - reading while he walked, because he likes to point out to Flint that _I_ can _do both, darling, I have very good hearing, besides when else will I have the time to catch up on my reading list?_

 

Usually, Flint is around to steer him free of lampposts and other people, but he had gone in for a staff meeting, and so Thomas had walked back from their lunch date by himself. His husband had stepped into the crosswalk without minding somedriver who had been texting and driving, nor the patch of ice, and, well  - 

 

Flint had gotten the call from the hospital during one of the staff meetings, and he reacted in a manner that was appropriate for when one receives a call that their husband has been in an accident and is being carted off in an ambulance with exceedingly vague details regarding his condition. He might have to eventually apologize to Hennessey for creating the dent in the wall from throwing open the door on his way out.

 

They were lucky that the damage was not as bad as it could have been, though. Thomas fractured his leg, cracked his wrist, and he has a mild concussion, but he’s expected to make a full recovery.

 

(“We’d like to keep you here overnight,” the nurse says, “But if you insist, we can release you. Due to the concussion, you’ll need to limit any mental concentration or use for the first twenty-fourhours. People often find it easier to let their brains recover when they’re here, instead of at home where there are more - distractions.” 

 

“Of course,” Thomas says. “I think I can do that at home - " 

 

“That means no reading,” Flint says. 

 

“Oh,” Thomas says, “Then, no.") 

 

He tells himself, _It could have been worse,_ though it really doesn’t help whenever he thinks about the swollen, bruised side of Thomas’s face. Once Thomas is in the clear and out of the hospital, though, he is going to the district attorney’s office or wherever and having a _very serious conversation_ with whoever is in charge of prosecuting the case. 

 

Although the longer that Flint sits in the chair, the more he wonders, what if they haven’t picked up on all the damage, what if something’s gone wrong and he’s _just sitting there_ - 

 

The door opens, and Flint’s out of his seat in an instant. The nurse is back, but this time she’s pushing Thomas in a wheelchair in front of her, another nurse trailing behind her. 

 

“Dear,” Thomas says, “Weren’t you going for coffee?” 

 

The fondness swells in his chest, and Flint comes over as the nurses lift Thomas back into the bed, put his leg back in traction. “I did get coffee, an entire hour ago,” he says. "How are you feeling?” 

 

“You look dead on your feet,” Thomas answers, looking on amusedly as Flint basically pushes aside the nurses to adjust Thomas’s sheets over him. “Did you even catch any more sleep in my absence?” 

 

“You can start complaining about how I look when you’re no longer in a hospital bed,” Flint says, a little too sharp, but Thomas just smiles up at him, then winces when the movement makes his split lip pull. “The scans?”

 

“Nothing they didn’t know before,” Thomas says. “Idelle, thank you for waiting for my husband earlier.” 

 

“You rest now, Mr. McGraw, and someone will be back in a few hours,” the nurse  -  Idelle says, and she disappears along with the other one. Flint turns to drag the chair to Thomas’s bedside, trying not to focus too much on the dark bruises going up the side of Thomas’s face. 

 

His husband reaches out with his good arm to touch his hand. “I mean this in the best way, but you look _horrid_.” 

 

“Says the man in two casts."

 

“If I don’t nag you, then you’re going to end up in a bed in the next room.”

 

“Don’t be absurd,” Flint tells him, turning his hand so that he can lace his fingers with Thomas's. "I would drag my bed in here."

 

“I’m going to be fine, you know that, right?” Thomas tells him. "They’ve got me on some delicious medicines. I just wish I could share.” 

 

“Thomas,” Flint says, “Let me worry since you were _hit by a car."_

 

“Not that I remember it, not really - “

 

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” 

 

“I’m in barely any pain,” Thomas says, even though Flint can see a small line in a forehead that certainly isn’t relaxation. “Now, how bad is the hospital coffee?” 

 

“I went to that place across the street,” Flint says, as he tucks the blanket a little more over Thomas’s lap. “What kind of name is the Bird’s Eye?” 

 

“Oh, they make excellent cappuccinos,” Thomas says, then pointedly looks around him, at the abandoned cup on the ground. “Is that what you have there?” 

 

“If you’re angling for that coffee, I heard the nurse. No caffeine, it’s a diuretic, not for at least a week after surgery - "

 

“I’m sure that’s just a suggestion, and I think I’m getting a headache from the caffeine withdrawal - "

 

“Nope."

 

“Then you’re just going to have to drink it for me and tell me how it tastes in incredible detail. Also, because I have the suspicion you haven’t slept in a while, and you look like you need it if you insist on watching over me for the next forty - eight hours like this.” 

 

“It’s gone cold by now,” Flint complains, even as he reaches for the cup. The things he does for love, he thinks as he drinks it. Thomas watches him with a sort of intensity that makes the back of his neck tingle, even when he sits down the cup after a few gulps. 

 

“And?” 

 

“Tastes like cold coffee.”

 

“Savor it for me, then. Really _taste_  it.” 

 

“I will if you stop looking at me like that."

 

“I thought you liked it when I look at you like this?"

 

“In other circumstances, yes, but not when your leg is in traction.”

 

“When’s that stopped us?” 

 

“Thomas.” 

 

“Fine, fine,” Thomas says. “Did you get the cappuccino?” 

 

“Yes,” Flint says, “But the barista went and ruined it with whipped cream.”

 

“The red-haired one?” 

 

“He had dark hair,” Flint says. “I think.” 

 

“Hm, I don’t think I know him,” Thomas says. “Is he new there?"

 

“He was hitting on me,” Flint says. 

 

“I can’t blame him.”

 

“Thomas.” 

 

“You didn’t snap at him, did you?”

 

“I didn’t _snap_.” 

 

“They make hot chocolates there, don’t they?” Thomas asks then, with the sort of intensity that Flint usually sees when he’s debating someone and knows he’s got the moral high ground. “The thick kind?” 

 

“I think those also have caffeine in them, Mr. McGraw.”

 

“But much less than a cappuccino,” Thomas says, and he bats his eyelashes in a way that is ridiculous and yet it always works on persuading him. “Please?”

 

“Only because you’re going to have to be weaned off that morphine soon,” Flint tells him as he reaches for his coat once again. “Anything else?” 

 

“With peppermint?”

 

“You’re pushing it.”

 

“You love me.”

 

“I do,” Flint says, leaning down to kiss him on his sweaty, disgusting forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Be good for the nurses." 

 

“Just for you,” Thomas calls after him, waving his uninjured arm as he leaves. 

 

•••

 

The sun has gone down since the last time he’s been outside, and there’s a certain chill to the air that makes him wonder if it’s in the forecast to storm. The streets are far more quiet, as he jams his hands in his pockets to cross the street to the coffee shop, the decorated sign still illuminated by two spotlights. 

 

Inside, the same barista from before is still there, and he looks up when Flint comes through the door. “Jimmy, you’re back!” 

 

“It’s _James_ ,” Flint says, and then forcibly reminds himself of Thomas’s words. “Can I get a peppermint hot chocolate?” 

 

“Ah, and here I thought you didn’t have a sweet tooth.” 

 

“It’s for my husband.”

 

“Ah,” the barista says, and he looks momentarily disappointed before smirking at Flint. “Being good for your man?” 

 

“He’s not - what - can I just get my hot chocolate _?”_

 

_“_ So he’s not your man?”

 

“We’re married, I don’t own him.”

 

“It’s slang,” the barista says. “Your man. Your hubby. Your dearly beloved - “

 

“My drink.”

 

“I guess that, too - ” 

 

“ _Could I just get a hot chocolate_?” 

 

“Fine, fine,” the barista says, turning to make it. Flint stares at the back of his curly head as he says, “So, you heading out for the holidays before the weather hits?”

 

“No,” Flint says, unclenching his fingers. 

 

The man makes a huffing sound, his shoulders going up and down. He’s steaming something in a large cup, as best as Flint can tell, continuing, “Any plans?”

 

“My husband is in the hospital.”

 

That makes the man’s hand jerk, and he ends up spilling a lot of the liquid. “Shit,” he says, “Oh, that explains the glum look. He all right?” 

 

“He’ll be fine,” Flint says stiffly. “Thank you for asking.” 

 

“On the house then,” the man says, blinking at him, “Once I remake it, that is, sorry about that.“ He picks up another cup, starts to mix it. “Rough timing, I must say."

 

“Yes,” Flint says, “Yes it is.”

 

The door behind him pushes open, and a woman comes out. “John, I’m leaving - oh. I didn’t know we had any more customers.” 

 

“Max, this is Jimmy - “

 

“ _James_.”

 

“- James, and he’s about to learn that I make the best hot chocolates _ever_ ,” the barista says. “This here is Max, my best friend, confidante, and boss.”

 

“A pleasure, James,” Max says. “Where did you two meet?” 

 

“Oh, we just met,” John says before Flint can say anything, and he glances back over at him as he adds, “But we’re going to be great friends."

 

“Is that so?” 

 

“I’m a hard man not to like,” John says, and the way that his smile dips and curves low on his face makes something inside Flint turn, but far from uncomfortably.

 

He thinks,  _Oh no._

 

“Unfortunately,” Max says, as Flint ruthlessly squashes down whatever that fuck just happened in his brain. “John, I’m meeting Anne for dinner. Be sure to close up."

 

“Have a delightful time,” John says, and Max leaves them. In the absence of another person, Flint steadfastly reties his scarf around his neck. He focuses on the pale green tiles beneath his feet - the pattern a little haphazard as if put in in a rush but not uncharming -  until two cups appear at the corner of his vision. 

 

“Your order is up,” John says, as Flint looks up, takes the two paper cups from him. “The second one’s on the house too, don’t worry. I think you’ll find it just sweet enough.” 

 

“Thanks,” he mutters, turning to go. 

 

“It’s John Silver,” the barista calls out after him, and Flint stops. “Just in case you were wondering,” and he winks at Flint, so Flint rolls his eyes and he leaves. 

 

He waits until he’s safely back inside the hospital to take a sip of his hot chocolate - helpfully with a large _J_ scrawled on it. Instead of peppermint, he can taste cinnamon. Flint rather grumpily takes another sip as he gets into the elevator to the third floor. 

 

•••

 

Thomas is still awake when Flint comes into the room, the light coming through hallway to illuminate his face. But on second glance, he’s definitely received some form of pain medication while Flint was out. “Oh, darling,” he says in a slight slur, as Flint flips on the lights to a dim setting, “You brought - the sunshine back with you - and _chocolate_  - "

 

 “Don’t burn your mouth,” Flint says, helping to guide the cup to Thomas’s mouth. “You’re not going to remember this, are you?”

 

“Mm,” Thomas says happily, making pleased sounds as he drinks, his free hand curling loosely around the cup. 

 

There’s a knock at the doorframe, and Flint looks up to see the doctor he vaguely remembers as being the one who had talked to him after Thomas’s surgery. “Mr. McGraw,” she says, looking right at him. “I was hoping to catch you.”

 

“Was he in pain?” 

 

“His wrist was bothering him,” the doctor says. “Nothing serious, I can assure you, only for his comfort. Mr. McGraw - “

 

“I go by Flint,” he says. Legally, he’s James McGraw, but when Thomas took the name when they got married, to avoid confusion Flint tends to go by his mother’s maiden name. Thomas was most insistent on never being referred to as Hamilton ever again - which Flint could sympathize with, he’s only met Thomas’s father, let alone grown up with him -  but he’s never had much of a connection to his name in any way. “Apologies, doctor - ?”  

 

“My name is Dr. Scott,” the woman says, flipping through Thomas’s chart then. “There were no complications with the surgery. Bar any developments overnight, I can release him tomorrow morning.” 

 

“Okay,” Flint says, setting the hot chocolate down. Thomas makes a displeased sound as he says, “And the concussion?”

 

“He’s in the clear now, but I’ll still suggest monitoring him these first few days, and of course avoiding any physical or mental stress,” Dr. Scott says, her eyes going from Thomas back to him. “Idelle’s left you with the post -op care instructions, do you have any questions?” 

 

“None, thank you.” 

 

“He’s a lucky case,” the doctor says then, her tone softening. Flint glances over at Thomas, who seems to have fallen asleep. “He’ll make a full recovery in a few months. Since he seems the type, he might even convince you or me to take him out of his cast far earlier."

 

Flint gives a light huff. “He talked to you, then?”

 

“Only to give his very definite opinion on a number of books he was teaching his students,” Dr. Scott says, and there’s a small quirk to her mouth. “I must say, it’s been a while since I was quizzed on my views of the philosophies presented in Don Quixote.” 

 

“I think when he first came to, the first words out of his mouth were, _Who’s taking over my classes?ˆ”_ Flint says, smiling a little to himself. “You’re lucky he only got to books.” 

 

“Visiting hours will be over shortly, Mr. Flint,” Dr. Scott says, then with a glance out of the door, she adds, “But I have to finish my rounds on another floor, and I’m sure Idelle will cast a blind eye if you just happen to stay tonight.” 

 

“Thank you, doctor,” Flint says, and she smiles at him again before leaving. 

 

•••

 

His phone rings in his pocket, and Flint jolts awake. He’s slumped over onto Thomas’s bed, his husband’s hand having found its way to the back of his head. As he carefully extricates himself without waking Thomas up, he can hear the phone stop making noise.

 

_Damn_. Flint rises as he takes it out, checking the notification - and sure enough, Miranda’s name blinks back up at him, then a voicemail from her. Rather than play it, he dials her number back. 

 

She picks up on the second ring. “Thomas was _hit by a car_?” 

 

“He’s sleeping now,” Flint says, keeping his voice low as not to wake Thomas. “Broken leg’s the worst of it, and the surgery went smoothly. I’m more worried about the concussion, but it seems to be minor.” 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Miranda says, and there’s a shifting noise, and then her muffled voice before she says clearly into the phone, “Are you at the hospital now?” 

 

Miranda works in some sector of the government that neither Flint or Thomas have ever gotten near the clearance to know much about, requiring frequent international travel and occasionally, going places where she cannot answer her phone. 

 

“I am."

 

“I’m boarding my first flight back now right now,” Miranda says, and she says something away from the phone, probably getting on the plane itself. Her voice comes back clearer as she asks, “How are you doing?” 

 

Flint exhales. “Better. The doctor said he should recover quickly.”

 

“You’re not considering the worst case scenarios anymore, are you?” 

 

“I think I’ve gotten those out of my system by now.” 

 

“I have to go now, but I’ll be there soon,” Miranda promises. “Look after yourself too, all right?”

 

“Just don’t go breaking any international laws."

 

“Only a few,” Miranda says. “Give Thomas my love too.” 

 

 

•••

 

In the morning, Thomas is more clear-headed, and he swats at Flint lightly when he tries to help him sit up fully without jostling the leg or arm. “I feel _awful_ ,” Thomas complains. “Just - give me a moment.” 

 

“That’s to be expected,” Flint says. “Do you want water?”

 

“I want a stiff drink,” Thomas says, rather petulantly, and he runs his good hand over his face with a groan. “So help me, James, if you're  _laughing at me right now_ \- “

 

While Idelle and Madi do last-minute checks on him, Flint goes out to get coffee for them and the other staff on the floor. His feet take him to the same place as yesterday before he can stop himself, and he’s going through the door, feeling the warmth on his face as he steps into the coffee shop. 

 

But instead of the barista from before, there’s a red-haired woman instead, mopping down the counter. Her head snaps up, and she doesn’t quite glower at him, but she rather curtly says, “What can I get you?” 

 

“Hi, I’ll have -” Flint starts, but before he can get anything else out, the doors to the side of the counter burst open. 

 

“I knew I recognized that lovely accent,” John Silver says. “James!”

 

“What _accent_ \- I barely said two words!"

 

“Quality, not quantity, darling,” Silver says. “Anne, I’ve got this. What will it be today?” 

 

“Seven lattes to go,” Flint says, “And a peppermint hot chocolate.” 

 

Silver brandishes an empty cup at him. “Either you’ve calculated the amount of caffeine it will take to have you see God, or you really like foam.” 

 

“I’m buying for the nurses at the hospital,” Flint says shortly, then rather unnecessarily adds, “The last one’s for my husband.” 

 

“Ah yes, the husband,” Silver says. “He’s getting out soon?”

 

“Today,” Flint says, as the barista stacks up more cups on the counter, the coffee machine already gurgling behind him. 

 

“Come on, sit down, I have you for the time it takes to make seven lattes and a peppermint hot chocolate,” Silver says, and he jerks his head at one of the stools that are on the other side of the counters. 

 

Flint takes a seat after a moment, eyeing the coffee shop. Now in the daylight, he can see how the far wall is made of full bookshelves, some of them uneven like they’ve been pulled out and put back as if an afterthought. The orange-red-blue tones of the place clash just a little, but it lets off a warm, comfortable vibe that even Flint admits is a nice break from the sterile white of the hospital. 

 

He turns back to the coffee counter, where Silver’s back is to him. His dark hair is tied into a bun at the base of his neck, a few errant curls springing out. Flint squints, trying to see if it’s a tattoo or a piece of hair that’s sticking to the skin visible above the edge of his shirt, before the barista twists around and Flint pretends that he was interested in the faux marble countertop under his fingers. 

 

“And how are you doing?” Silver inquires, setting down a carton of milk, and Flint frowns. 

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, you,” Silver says. “You look more tired, but less stressed. Did you spend last night at the hospital?”

 

“What?” 

 

“Well, you’re wearing the same thing as last night,” John points out, tapping his temple with his finger. “I notice all things, James."

 

“Then I’m sure you know your pitcher's overflowing,” Flint tells him, and Silver scrambles for a moment as he regains control of the operation he’s got going on, nearly knocking over the cups stacked on the counter. 

 

“It’s an artistic process,” Silver says once it no longer looks like the cups are about to fall. “I’m an expert at this.” 

 

“Well, only four of the coffees are for me, so practice your expertise on those first,” Flint says, and Silver lets out a surprised snort, before turning to lean against the counter to face him. 

 

“So, tell me about you,” Silver says. “Tell me all about James, Not-Jimmy.” 

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“You seem like an interesting man.”

 

“We don’t know each other.” 

 

“But we could,” Silver says. “So a night in the hospital, and you didn’t have anyone to bring you any fresh clothes?”

 

“Are you usually this persistent in knowing your customers?”

 

“Only the gorgeous ones,” Silver says easily, enough so that Flint nearly doesn’t process the words as he turns back around to start pouring into the cups. “You want any shots in these? They’re free today.” 

 

“No, they aren't,” Anne says from the register. 

 

“Have you no holiday cheer, Miss Bonny?”

 

“No.” 

 

“I take it back,” Silver says. “Regular priced shots?”

 

“Flint.”

 

“I don’t think we make those  \- you are a challenge, aren’t you?” 

 

“I go by Flint,” he says. Only Thomas and Miranda call him James, and he’d rather not have his own name ruined by this man, at this rate. He should’ve used a fake name the other day. 

 

But Silver beams like he had just given him a compliment. “James Flint,” he says, enunciating the last syllable so it snaps off his tongue, and _why did he tell him his last name_? “I like it."

 

Anne snorts then, and she pushes by John without a word. In her absence, Flint meets Silver’s eyes, and he raises his eyebrows. 

 

“I might have angered my coworker, in case you were wondering - “

 

“I wasn’t.”

 

“- by inquiring as to her intentions with Max,” Silver finishes, then reflectively says, “I thought they were dating.” 

 

“Did you pry?”

 

“Is it really  _prying_ if you refuse to hand her her morning coffee until she confirms that she is in romantic liaisons with your boss?” 

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“I didn’t really do that,” Silver clarifies. “I might’ve just, ah, asked her a little too persistently. She’s been rather short-tempered with me since."

 

“We have that in common.” 

 

“Now, now, Mr. Flint, I think you might be on your way to liking me,” Silver says, and he winks. “Come on, you’re practically a regular here.” 

 

“Is your business doing that poorly?” 

 

“Not when my favorite customer is buying nine drinks a day,” Silver says, and he rings him up. Flint’s already handed over cash by the time his brain catches up. 

 

“Wait  \-  _nine_ ?” 

 

“I took the presumption that you’ve slept very little since the last time I’ve seen you, and you weren’t planning on throwing back four of these in the hospital elevator after all,” Silver says easily, handing him his change and pushing the cups back. “Am I wrong?” 

 

He isn’t, but Flint still glowers at him as he takes the trays of coffee cups - dangerously wobbly, but he’ll manage somehow. 

 

“It’s another  cappuccino!” Silver calls out as he pushes the door open to leave. “Have a good holiday, Jimmy!”

 

 

•••

 

Thomas is better once they get home, though he falls asleep on the sofa nearly as soon as Flint gets him through the door  \- not that he didn’t expect that, for all that Thomas protested _I’m not going to fall asleep, I’ll just watch the news for a bit, that’s all._ Flint listens to him snore for a few hours, and he lets himself fall into an armchair as he checks his email, answers a few from his colleagues who had inquired after Thomas. 

 

His phone rings in the early evening, snapping him back to awareness. Flint gets up to step into their bedroom to answer it, as Thomas is still asleep on the couch. “Hello?” 

 

“I’m in a taxi,” Miranda says without preamble. “Are you at your apartment?” 

 

“Yes, he’s just fallen asleep,” Flint tells her. “How was your flight?” 

 

“Too long,” Miranda says. “I’ll be there in sixteen minutes.” 

 

When Flint answers the door, he barely gets a moment to recognize who it is before Miranda has her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. “You utter bastards,” she mumbles into his neck. “I think I’m getting white hairs because of you both.” 

 

Now that two of his favorite people are under the same roof, he feels himself finally relax, hugging her back. “Thomas still says he’s blond, but I think we both know he’s been grey for the last few years,” Flint tells her before letting her go. “He says it’s mostly my fault though.” 

 

Now that he can see her fully, Miranda looks remarkably put together considering she’s just come from the airport, and despite her words, her eyes are warm as she looks him over. "Last time, might I remind you, it was you in jail,” she says, “And now Thomas in the hospital  -  “

 

“I missed you,” Flint says. “We both missed you. And I was never convicted.” 

 

Miranda reaches up to pat his cheek. “You're lucky I know people in high places.” 

 

•••

 

Thomas is delighted to see Miranda when he finally wakes up. Flint's not sure how lucid he would be, but they soon both get into an animated discussion about some political occurrence while Flint brings them both tea. In Thomas’s, he puts extra milk to cool it down so that in case it spills, it won’t burn him. They both smile up at him when he delivers the cups before turning back to talk more. 

 

A s much as he likes to just listen to them talk, Flint knows that these sort of conversations nearly always lead to them making fun of him, usually something to do with the brief time during which Flint and Miranda dated in college (before Miranda likes to tease that Thomas stole him away, to which Thomas replies _like you didn’t haven’t ever stolen anyone’s boyfriend or girlfriend away from them, dear_ ) _._ It’s always good -natured, but a few hours  after Miranda has arrived, Flint excuses himself. 

 

“I’m just going to get more milk,” he tells them, and Thomas waves him off as Miranda starts telling him some story about the last time she was in Berlin. 

 

Outside, the snow has started to fall more heavily. Flint pulls his hat down to cover his ears more as he walks down the street to where their car is parked. The roads are strangely quiet as he gets into the car and starts driving. Their usual corner store is closed since it’s the start of the holiday weekend, but he’ll just go to the other one. 

 

True to his guess, he’s soon greeted by the bright neon lights of the open sign inside the glass door as he parks the car. Flint opens the door to the store, nodding to the man behind the counter, and he makes his way over to the dairy aisle. 

 

He’s in the middle of selecting a carton of milk when he hears raised voices.  “- was vanilla, and that was _very clearly absinthe_ ,” the voice says, and Flint realizes he recognizes that voice. “Hallucinated that I lost my other leg that time, right?” 

 

Flint grabs a carton and closes the refrigerator door, just as the voice gets even louder, “So what? I’ll get whatever damn syrup they have in this store  -  “ and Flint watches as John Silver rounds the corner, flip phone pressed to the side of his head with his shoulder. He’s carrying two cartons of eggs in one broadly stretched hand, three loaves of bread squished under his arm, a bottle of something in his other hand, and his eyes move over to look right at Flint. 

 

“I have to go,” Silver says into the phone, but before Flint can say anything, wave him off, the barista’s managed to get the phone closed and in the hand that’s holding the eggs in a  smooth gesture. “If it isn’t Jimmy!"

 

“James,” Flint corrects, then nods to the phone. “Did you just hang up on your  - “

 

“My friend Muldoon,” Silver supplies. “Getting stocked up before the storm, is it?” 

 

“The storm? ”

 

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be a big one,” Silver says. “They closed down fifth and sixth just now.” 

 

“Fifth and - “ Flint pinches his nose. He’s going to have to park far, far away now. “Great. ”

 

“I would ask, _did you not see the extensive news coverage,_ only I know for a fact that they only show reruns of Friends in hospital rooms,” Silver says. “Even the good ones get old eventually. I remember seeing the one where Chandler gets into the box at least five times  \- "

 

"If you don’t mind,” Flint cuts him off, "I have to get back home.” 

 

“Not at all,” Silver replies, and as Flint moves by him, he follows him down the aisle. “I’m just leaving myself.” 

 

“Don’t you need to get syrup?” Flint throws back at him, remembering the phone call, and Silver’s smile if anything just gets wider as they pass by the canned goods. 

 

“It’ll wait,” he says. “The shop’s closed for the week, anyways.” 

 

“Why are you following me?” 

 

“We’re still talking, aren’t we?” 

 

Flint resolves to get out of the store as soon as possible, as the other man sets down his items behind Flint’s on the counter. As the cashier rings him up, Silver speaks up, “And how’s the husband?” 

 

“He’s home now,” Flint says, paying the cashier. “I don’t need a bag,” he tells the man. “Goodbye, Silver.” 

 

“Careful driving back,” Silver tells him rather cheerfully as he pushes his items up to the counter. “I, on the other hand, would like as many bags as you can give me, sir  \- "

 

Flint makes it back to his car muttering under his breath. The snow’s falling even heavier than when he entered the store, and he spends a couple more minutes brushing snow off his windshield before getting in. 

 

As he waits for the car to warm up again, he sees Silver exiting the store. Flint looks around at the empty parking lot, then back to the lone figure, watching as Silver walks out of the parking lot and down the street. He’s not even wearing a winter coat, for fuck’s sake. 

 

He’s backing up in the car before he can think about it. “Hey,” Flint says as he approaches, then rolls down the window despite the snow now coming into the car. He shouts, “Hey! ”

 

Silver turns around, the multiple bags strung around his arms, as Flint stops the car right next to the crosswalk. Silver squints at the car, “It’s rather cold to be catcalling, isn’t it?” 

 

“Oh my god,” Flint says, then, “What do you think you’re doing?” 

 

“That you, Jimmy?” 

 

“For god’s sake,” Flint mutters to himself, then raises his voice as a truck pushing the snow goes by. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

 

“Uh,” Silver says. “Back to the shop?” 

 

“That's got to be at least two miles away.  “

 

“Slowly,” Silver says. “I’ll slowly be going back to the shop. My car's being repaired.” He’s already shivering, and Flint barely suppresses a groan as Silver turns his head back to the street. “It’s been lovely as usual, but I should be going - “ 

 

“Get in the car,” Flint orders, cutting him off as both of Silver’s eyebrows rise rapidly. “Come on, before I change my mind.” 

 

“Are you sure - “ 

 

“Just do me a favor and don’t talk while I drive you there, all right?” 

 

After a moment, Silver nods, and he goes around the car to get into the passenger’s seat. 

 

•••

 

Silver, of course, chats with him as soon as Flint takes his foot off the brake. “And then Max and I went to the hardware store, where neither of us knew how to properly measure the amount of pipe we needed,” he says as they’re driving. “Luckily, a certain frightening yet capable redhead was there to help, and that’s how Max and I met Anne. You met Anne, right?” 

 

Flint drums his fingers on the wheel. The two miles has turned into far longer in the car, now that the road is getting covered with snow and ice and he’s forced to drive at roughly the speed of a toddler crawling. “Hm.” 

 

“So Anne’s getting paid barely anything, yeah, and so Max offers her a job right there, though I think that’s something to do with the fact that she thought she was rather good looking too,” Silver says reflectively. “Morally ambiguous, but hey, the things we do for love, right?” 

 

Flint makes a sound in response. 

 

“How did you meet your husband, then?” Silver asks, and Flint glances over at him. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Your husband,” Silver says. “I must ask, Jimmy, is your hearing up to snuff  -  “

 

“Call me Jimmy one more time, and I’m throwing you out of the car,” Flint threatens, as Silver tilts his head back and laughs. “I’m serious. ”

 

“No doubt,” Silver says, crossing his legs in front of him as the car falls into a silence. Flint expects it to be uncomfortable, only it’s not, somehow, as the moments stretch on. When he looks over again, Silver’s looking out the window. The passing streetlights make his face look like it’s dancing even as he doesn’t speak, the light catching the tips of his curls that are still faintly glistening from the melted snow. 

 

He might as well drive into a lamppost right there and then, put himself out of this. Thomas will understand, he knows that Flint has to keep his dignity somehow  - 

 

“We met in university,” Flint says, and Silver’s head turns to look at him. Flint looks back at the road in front of him. “He was an assistant to a professor for one of my classes.” 

 

“Scandalous,” Silver says. “Was it love at first office hours?” 

 

“I will throw you out of the car.” 

 

“Fine, fine. And you got married  \- ? ”

 

“Six years ago,” Flint  replies before he can think better of it. “Miranda said she wanted to plan our wedding, and we wanted the excuse to travel.” 

 

(Not that he would admit this, but Flint had also, quietly, wanted something  beyond signing paperwork.  Thomas, who knew him better than anyone else, had known this, and he had told him that Flint was his _favorite stubborn, romantic fool_  in the middle of their vows during the ceremony which they had held in Flint’s father’s garden. It had been a nice day.)

 

“Miranda?” Silver questions and Flint glances over as he turns into one of the side streets.

 

“She’s family,” he says and leaves it at that. 

 

“Ah,” Silver says like that makes sense. “I’ve got someone like that.”

 

Flint surprises himself a little when he’s genuinely interested as he asks, “Oh?” 

 

“Her name’s Madi,” Silver says, sounding fond, as Flint looks over at him again under the guise of making sure that the heat on the car is on. There’s a small smile on his face as he continues, “She’s the smartest person I know  \- one of the kindest, bravest, best people I’ve ever met. ”

 

Flint adjusts his rear view window. “You’re together?” 

 

“Well, yes and no,” Silver says, and he sounds like he’s fiddling with something as he answers, but Flint can’t see his face from the corner of his eye.  “She’s quite busy over at the hospital  \- actually, you might have seen her, she’s a doctor there, in neurology?” 

 

“Madi,” Flint repeats, his mind working. “Unless she’s Dr. Scott, I don’t think  - “ 

 

“You know her?” Silver asks. 

 

“Oh,” Flint says, “Yes. She treated my husband.” 

 

“She’s brilliant, isn’t she?” Silver enthuses. “Hey, can I smoke in your car?” 

 

For a moment, Flint thinks about Silver’s mouth curving around a lit cigarette, the lower half of his face illuminated by the small flame, and the idea momentarily makes him forget that he has to answer. Luckily, they pull up in front of the coffee shop just then. 

 

“Jimmy?” 

 

“We’re there,” Flint announces as he stops the car, and he throws open his door with more force than he usually would use, taking two of Silver’s plastic bags with him. “Come on, then.” 

 

Flint has to blink to keep the snow out of his eyes, as he waits for Silver to come around the car to the front door.  “Really, truly, thanks again,” Silver says as he fumbles with the keys. 

 

The inside of the coffee shop is still warm as they traipse in, Silver going and setting his bags down on the counter, not bothering to flick on any of the lights. Flint had thought he would leave him here, but there’s no way that he’s going to let anyone walk for a minute in weather like this, so he lingers by the door for a moment. 

 

“Where do you live?” Flint asks, and Silver huffs out a surprised laugh as he sets down the egg cartons. 

 

“I think you have to buy me dinner before we get there  -  “

 

“I mean, where should I drive you?” Flint says, already getting his phone out to text Thomas. 

 

“Upstairs, actually,” Silver says, as Flint stops typing. “Max gets  convenient security for the shop, and I get a steeply discounted rent, see.” 

 

“All right,” Flint says, feeling foolish for no reason at all as he tucks away his phone. “I’m... going to go.” 

 

“James,” Silver says, and he catches Flint’s arm before he can go back out into the cold. “Thank you,” he says, as Flint turns to look into his eyes. They’re a startling color, a bright blue, but Flint thinks that there’s a certain sharpness to them that makes him blink for a moment, looking at him. “I mean it.” 

 

“I might’ve felt bad if you had frozen,” Flint says, and Silver gives a soft laugh as he lets go of Flint’s forearm. “Happy holidays.”

 

“And to you,” Silver says, watching as he goes. 

 

Flint gets into his car, and he texts Thomas, _Be back soon_. He puts his keys into the car, turns it.

 

Nothing happens. Flint frowns, tries again, but there’s nothing. 

 

“Oh my god,” Flint says to the empty space of the car. He tries it again, and still, nothing. 

 

He dials Thomas, then, but it’s Miranda who picks up. “Hello?” 

 

“Miranda, the car’s broken down,” Flint says. “I don’t have the number of the towing company, can you call them?”

 

“Sure,” Miranda says, and she says something off the phone, probably to Thomas, shuffling sound as she must pass the phone.

 

Then it’s his husband who’s on the phone. “James?” 

 

“The car won’t start,” he says. “I think that starter’s finally gone.” 

 

“Oh,” Thomas says. “That’s unfortunate.” 

 

“I’m going to be a bit late getting back,” he says. “I drove someone back.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“The barista from the other day,” Flint says. “He was going to walk back in this blizzard.” 

 

“That’s a very good thing for you to do,” Thomas says. Them Miranda says something in the background, and Flint can hear them talking in muffled voices. 

 

Then there’s a beep, and he can tell he’s been put on speakerphone. “James, the towing company is swamped,” Miranda says apologetically. “I have them on the line right now, but he just told me that it might be about four hours until they can get to you."

 

“Four hours?” Flint rests his head on the top of the steering wheel. “Are you sure?” 

 

“I tried the taxis, but no one wants to head out in this weather,” Miranda says. “Perhaps I could borrow a neighbor’s car, try to get to you  -  “

 

“No, don’t risk it,” Flint tells her, sighing. “All right, I’m going to be even later than I thought, I suppose.” 

 

He glances over to the coffee shop, where he can see a light turn on. “Oh my god,” he repeats out loud. 

 

“James?” Thomas asks, his voice clearer. “Do you have somewhere you can be inside?” 

 

“Yes,” Flint says, "I do.” 

 

•••

 

Flint only has to hit on the door a few times before Silver opens it, pausing at the sight of him. “You do know we’re closed right now - not that it isn’t lovely to see you so soon - “ 

 

“My car won’t start,” Flint says, as Silver looks past him. “Could I come in?” 

 

“Of course,” Silver says, ushering him in and closing the door. “That’s rough luck. Do you want me to call a tow company?” 

 

“Tried,” Flint says. “They can’t come for a few hours at least."

 

"We’re both a bit of a mess, aren’t we?” 

 

“It’s been a bad couple of days,” Flint mutters, blowing on his fingers. “I’m sorry to… impose.” 

 

Silver studies him for a moment, then seems to make up his mind as Flint glances back at him. “You know what? We’re going to deal with these bad days the old-fashioned way. ”

 

“Drink ourselves into an early grave and wallow in despair?” 

 

“Well, we’re certainly going to drink,” Silver says. “Come on, we’ll head up to my apartment.” 

 

•••

 

The snowstorm seems to have gotten even worse as Flint glances out the window from Silver’s apartment. The space is small yet cozy, as Silver pushes aside what appears to be a mound of clothing from a futon so that they can both sit down. 

 

“I have only the bare essentials, but I know there’s some sandwich fixings from the shop I can grab,” Silver tells him as he opens his fridge. “Beer?” 

 

“Sure,” Flint says after a moment, as Silver rummages around. “Your place is… nice.” 

 

“Helps that it’s just me,” Silver says.  “Sorry you might spend part of your holidays away from your husband.” 

 

“Sorry you’re, ah, “ Flint says, “Going to spend part of Christmas Eve trapped in here with me.” 

 

“No worries, I’m Jewish,” Silver tells him, ducking down and bringing up two glasses. “And lucky for the two of us, I have plenty of beer.” 

 

•••

 

A few beers in, Flint finds that he’s much more comfortable with Silver than he thought he would be. For such a man who on first glance is superficial, irritating, _charming_ , he’s rather contradictory. Despite flirting with Flint from nearly the moment that they had met, there’s a surprising consideration to his words that Flint honestly didn’t expect, especially the more they talk. 

 

 Silver can talk on lengths about the books that Flint happens to bring up, but he never brings up any schooling, nor any job other than working for Max or the time that he worked on a fishing boat, apparently. As he drinks right alongside Flint, his accent slips just a little so it sounds like something else, more lilting around the vowels, but Flint just can’t quite place its location. 

 

As they wait for the tow truck, and Silver brings them more and more beers, Flint finds himself telling Silver about his childhood in Padstow. He tells him about his brief stint in the Navy, the bad years when his mother had died, the time he had met Admiral Hennessey, when he met Thomas. He tells Silver all of this, and Silver nods and his eyes are a little too bright to be sober and Flint  - 

 

Flint thinks about the time that he proposed to Thomas, shortly after Thomas proposed to him. Miranda teases them for being old romantics, but they had both been three sheets to the wind in a bar in Paris, out of all things, and Flint can barely remember the time if it hadn’t been Thomas waking him up the next morning asking _Did we get engaged last night?_

 

Flint’s just a little drunk, but he thinks that Silver’s hair looks nice in the dim light from the kitchenette. As Silver stretches to get a cigarette, Flint thinks, _Thomas would like him_. 

 

He must voice the thought out loud, for Silver pauses. “Yeah?” he says, the smile growing slow on his face, like before but much more open, the cigarette dancing between his lips. “I think I’d like to meet him.” 

 

Perhaps it’s the beers that have gotten to him, but Flint finds himself carefully treading the subject that comes up in his mind. “You said before, with Madi,” he says, seeing Silver’s eyes shift. “What happened? ”

 

“Nothing happened,” Silver says after a moment, his movements too relaxed to be honest. “What makes you say that?” 

 

“I,” Flint starts, then he swallows. He’s not even told Miranda this, and yet, he finds that he wants to say that. “Thomas and I, we went through a rough patch, early on. His father was horrible, to him, and when he learned of our relationship, he put pressure on Thomas to break it off.” 

 

“He didn’t,” Silver says. “But did you?” 

 

Flint honestly should be worried that Silver seems to read his face that well after many beers and only a few real hours of knowing each other. “Yeah,” he says, “I did. Or I thought I did, at least. Not because of Alfred Hamilton, though. We had an argument over something simple one day, and he stormed out. And I thought, there is not a chance after that, after we could argue over something so _petty_ , that he would risk losing everything over someone like me.” 

 

“Jesus,” Silver says. “You left him?” 

 

Flint nods, taking a long sip of his beer before he continues. “I started to.  And when Thomas came back - well, we talked it over, and then I moved in, so. It turned out far better than I could’ve ever hoped.” 

 

It’s Silver turn to take a long drink now, as Flint stretches his legs out below the futon. “Well,” Silver says, “I suppose you know some of my story now.” 

 

“Let me guess,“ Flint says. “You were worried, how can I keep this woman in my life? How can I measure up to the sort of man that she deserves, to give her any happiness in this life?” 

 

Silver’s blinking at him now as Flint continues, “You thought to yourself, what we have here, it can’t last, it has to end, and I might as well end it here. And so you probably did, thinking it was for the best. And maybe it was - but maybe, maybe you deserve the chance to find that out.” 

 

Flint finishes off his beer, and when he glances over, Silver still hasn’t said anything. “Well?” 

 

Silver is slow to respond, enough so that Flint wonders if he’s fallen asleep. “That might be the difference between you and I,” Silver says after a long moment. “See, I’m not the one who broke up with her.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

“I got into an accident,” Silver says, and he taps on his prosthetic leg, revealed by the cuff of his jeans that’s been pushed up. Flint hadn’t brought it up, but now that he thinks about it, he wonders if he should have. “I had my own rough patch, it turns out.” 

 

Flint looks at where flesh meets metal, Silver’s knuckles against the metal. “And?” 

 

“It wasn’t the accident, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Silver says. “Before any of that  \- no matter what I thought, it was more to do with me than anything to do with my leg, see.  She wanted more of everything in this world, wanted to do more.” He gestures around him, and something sad curls in Flint’s stomach at the way his eyes go distant for a moment. “And me - I can’t give her that. Madi, she certainly deserves more than me. And I would give her anything - but she loves me. She doesn’t want me to give everything up for her. She told me that when she moved out, that I deserve more. She doesn’t want to take anything from me - and I don’t know what else to give.” 

 

“I”m sorry,” Flint says, because he doesn’t know what quite to say to all of this.

 

“So we’re still ‘on and off’,” Silver says, making air quotes. “Maybe someday I’ll figure out how not to care so much.” 

 

The words eat away at the space between them, so Flint says, “You should care,” and he puts his hand right next to Silver’s to get his attention, his finger just barely brushing the side of Silver’s hand. “This world - it needs more caring. If we cannot care as much as we can  \- well,  I cannot believe that we are so poorly made as that, that anything else would be acceptable.” 

 

Silver laughs, and it’s a little breathless as he gauges whatever’s on Flint’s face. “Are you a philosophic drunk, then?” 

 

“Not really,” Flint says, watching Silver look at him. “But believe me. You should care.” 

 

He’s not sure who moves first, but the next thing he knows, Silver’s thumb is running along his jaw, and he’s kissing Flint, so light that Flint might miss it if he wasn’t suddenly so close to him. Silver tastes like the beer and something vaguely sweet as his mouth dips against his, and Flint feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise as Silver’s fingers pull slightly into his jaw, bringing him even closer  - 

 

There’s a knock on the door, and they spring apart like guilty teenagers. “Fuck,” Silver says, looking down at his mouth, then back at Flint’s eyes. “I - James - “ 

 

Flint’s already gathering his coat, the alcohol making his cheeks burn as he picks himself up. “I’m sorry,” he says again, “Thank you for letting me stay,” and then he answers the door to the harried  \- looking driver, and leaves without looking back. 

 

 

•••

 

When he gets back to the apartment in the early hours of the morning, Miranda is asleep on the pullout couch. Flint toes off his shoes silently, before heading into their bedroom. 

 

Thomas is in their bed, a blanket only partially covering the cast on his leg. He is reading a book, though, which he shuts looking rather guilty as Flint comes in. Which, Flint could laugh, because _Thomas_  is certainly not the guilty one here - “Welcome back,” Thomas says, reaching for him with one arm before hissing as he shifts his weight. “Come here, would you?” 

 

Flint goes around, and he stops just out of Thomas’s  grasp. “Thomas, I  \- "

 

“I thought you were going to be trapped there forever,” Thomas says, placing his book on the bed. “Come closer, would you?” 

 

“Thomas, I need to tell you something,” Flint says, dragging his gaze up. Thomas is wearing one of his shirts, the tee shirt hem a little frayed where it’s riding up on Thomas’s longer torso. “I was at the coffee shop, with that barista  -  “

 

“John,” Thomas supplies, and when Flint blinks at him, he says, “I remembered his name. He made that excellent hot chocolate, right?” 

 

“Yes,” Flint says, “Thomas - I didn’t mean to, but we had been drinking, and I kissed him.” 

 

He braces himself, just waiting for Thomas’s disappointed face - but Thomas just looks up at him. Rather, he looks at him just like when Flint’s being a little slow in the morning and he’s just put orange juice in his coffee. “Darling,” he says, “I might have had ulterior motives in sending you to that coffee shop.” 

 

“What,” Flint says because he had expected to join Miranda on the couch tonight. 

 

“Well, before I was utterly drugged out of my mind, I had planned on telling you this,” Thomas begins, “But that awfully handsome barista  seemed to be just your type.” 

 

“My _type_?” 

 

“I’m sorry if that was not the case,” Thomas hurries to say, looking determined as he gains momentum, “But you know, it’s been a while since we’ve talked about this  -  “

 

“Thomas  -  “

 

“And yes, I think we should have a conversation before it gets any further, but he had just the most _fascinating_ opinions about this book I was reading - well, I think that book might’ve also gotten hit by the car now, but regardless  -  “

 

“Thomas, I kissed him,” Flint repeats. “What are you talking about?” 

 

“Well, I had hoped you might,” Thomas says. “Did you not like kissing him?” 

 

“What - I don’t _know,_ Thomas, I’m telling you, I was unfaithful to you -  “

 

“It’s not being unfaithful if I set it up,” Thomas points out. “Now, what’s his last name again?” 

 

“Silver,” Flint says, feeling a little weak. “John Silver.” 

 

“I think we should have John Silver over for dinner,” Thomas says. “Maybe once my leg’s a little more healed. ”

 

Flint sits down heavily on the bed, though careful not to jostle Thomas’s leg. “Thomas. I - we can’t.” 

 

“You didn’t like him?” 

 

“No, I  - “ _I liked him more than I want to admit, considering I barely know him but I want, I want to know more_ -  “-I talked to him. He’s in love with someone else. He was drunk when he kissed me.” 

 

“Oh,” Thomas says. “I am sorry, then. I didn’t mean for any of this to cause you any strife.” 

 

“I told him about us,” Flint says. “He - I thought that you two would get along.” 

 

“I had hoped so too,” Thomas says, reaching to take his hand. “Now, will you come here already?” 

 

Flint crawls onto the bed, settling down next to his husband. Thomas says into his hair, “I love you unspeakable amounts, darling. I thought that this might be good - the whole hospital adventure rather put a stop on that though, didn’t it?” 

 

He lets out an exhale into Thomas’s shoulder. “You could say that.” 

 

•••

 

Christmas comes and goes. Miranda stays with them until Boxing Day, before she excuses herself to go back to her own apartment, as she told them,  _“And sleep in my own bed, I love you both dearly but I do need some time without watching the two of you moon over each other, you know”._ Flint suspects it’s also something to do with the secret girlfriend that Miranda had accidentally let slip about over spiked eggnog Christmas Day, but they're letting her tell them about it on her own time. 

 

Flint doesn’t go to the coffee shop. He stays in bed with Thomas most of the days, doing some work at home while Thomas watches television and they both eat a lot of terrible soup. The days pass, and as Thomas does better with each passing day, it looks like he’s going to be able to get his cast taken off during his next appointment. 

 

It’s the day before New Year’s Eve, a sunny Saturday as Flint drives Thomas to his appointment with Dr. Scott. He’s a little wary of seeing her after learning about her from Silver, but Thomas assures him, he doesn’t even have to bring it up if it makes him that uncomfortable. 

 

“You’re healing well,” Dr. Scott  \- _Madi_   tells them. She had told them to call her by her first name, and Flint thinks about the look in Silver’s eyes when he had said her name. “I think we can take the cast off today.” 

 

As Thomas rather happily goes into the next room to get the cast off, Flint clears his throat. “Doctor?” When Madi turns to him, he asks, “Can I ask you something?” 

 

“Go ahead.” 

 

“It’s of a more personal nature,” Flint starts, carefully, as Madi raises an eyebrow. “I know John.”

 

Surprise flickers in Madi’s eyes. “I didn’t know that you were familiar.” 

 

“We just met,” Flint says, “He let me stay in his apartment during the blizzard  \- listen, I don’t mean to make this uncomfortable for you in any way - “ 

 

“You’re him,” Madi says in realization, and he stops. “You’re James.” 

 

“He told you about me?” 

 

“He called me for the first time in weeks,” Madi says. “He told me that you talked, and what you told him  \- he didn’t clarify, but whatever it was you said, it seemed to help him. He made me miss two calls from my girlfriend, actually, until I told him to come on over and tell me in person. ”

 

“Your girlfriend,” Flint says. “I, well, I didn’t know.” 

 

“John knew about her, just like she knew about him during our relationship,” Madi tells him. “I don’t usually talk about my personal matters here in my office, James, I must admit.” 

 

“Right,” Flint says, “Well, I just wanted to say that he does care. I just wanted to say that if there is any possibility there, that I think you should take it.” 

 

Madi looks at him for a long time, enough so that Flint feels compelled to add, “You both seem like you deserve it. I’m going to go make sure my husband isn’t persuading the technician to take off his leg cast now, but I thought I needed to say something.” 

 

He can still feel her eyes on him as he turns to go. Thomas is in the middle of debating with the technician, true to his guess, as Flint comes in, and Flint’s able to forget about the conversation as he firmly tells the technicianto disregard whatever his husband might have suggested. 

 

Afterwards, the snow’s starting to melt on the sides of the road the higher the sun rises in the sky. Thomas comments on it as Flint helps him into the car, and during the way back, as they listen to the radio, Flint thinks about the drops of snow reflecting off of dark hair. 

 

•••

 

They’re watching the ball drop on the television screen, and on the stroke of midnight, Flint leans over to press a kiss to Thomas’s mouth. “Here’s to many more excellent years,” Thomas tells him, and Flint smiles, kissing him again. 

 

Their doorbell rings soon after, and when Flint opens the door, he’s there.

 

“Champagne,” Silver says, and he holds up a bottle. His eyes are wide as they watch Flint, and Flint - it settles into place, seeing him there in that same sweatshirt. “You need champagne for New Year’s, so I’m told. I’m not great at holidays. Your, ah, husband told me that you didn’t have any.” 

 

“It’s the traditional drink.” Truth be told, Flint had forgotten that they didn’t have any  \- he and Thomas were never the traditional sort, per say, and it’s not like Thomas could drink right then. “He told you that?” 

 

“I did,” Thomas says from the couch. “Nice to see you, John.” 

 

“He called me,” Silver explains, eyes going from the couch back to Flint.  “So I brought this, and I thought I’d say happy New Year’s.” 

 

“That’s not champagne,” Flint hears himself say. “It has to come from that specific region in France."

 

“It’s practically the same,” Silver says. “I drink it. It tastes great.” 

 

“Sure,” Flint says. “It’s… good to see you.” 

 

“Madi called me,” Silver tells him abruptly. “We’re back together. She told me I was an idiot, but that luckily for me, she loves that I care so much.”

 

“I’m glad,” Flint says, tamping down whatever it was he was going to say. “You deserve it.” 

 

“The champagne,” Silver says again. “Like I said, it’s really nice. “

 

“Right.” 

 

“You should try it,” Silver says then. “You might like it."

 

“All right,” Flint says, and now they’re close enough that he can see the way Silver’s eyes go wide, focused on him \- and the moment that’s happening, it feels as significant as the first time he had seen Thomas. “I want to try it.” 

 

“It really could be great.” 

 

“John,” Flint says. “I believe you.” 

 

“We should try this,” Silver says. “I can’t tell you why, but I want  - “ his throat works for a second, as he stares right at Flint, hands at his sides. “We haven’t known each other for long but this  \- with this, with h ow good it feels, it has to be  \-  it has to be _something_.” 

 

Flint takes a step closer, and when Silver drops the bottle, he hears it fall, but as he steps forward again, he’s not caring as glass crunches under his shoes.

 

When Flint kisses him for the second time, it could’ve been the first for all that he cares. Silver's mouth is half open as as Flint presses closer, until Silver’s pulling him in right back like he can’t stand to have any space between them anymore. They continue kissing right there in the hallway, as champagne soaks into the carpet around their shoes, the sounds of the television, already faint in the background, fading away as they’re drawn together. 

 

Silver’s mouth is warm on his, as he makes some incoherent sound that might be like a sigh of relief as he presses right back. Flint carefully reaches up, putting his hand in that dark curly hair, and he opens his eyes a little just to see the little line in between Silver’s eyebrows like he’s concentrated on staying right in this moment, before closing his again so he can kiss him deeper. 

 

As Silver’s hands come up around to the back of his neck, Flint thinks, _We should_. 

 

“You two might just be the least subtle people I know,” Thomas says from the couch. “And I’ve just been hit by a car, so I’m not cleaning that up, either.” 

 

•••

 

“I do have a question,” Flint says, as Silver pours them both coffee. “Where does the name the Bird’s Eye come from, even?” 

 

“Oh, I used to have this old parrot,” Silver says. “She was a great pet, she would talk more than I would I think. I’m thinking about getting another one, actually.” 

 

Flint says, “I’m going to have to break up with you.” 

 

“Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me,” Silver says with a wide grin, and Flint hides his smile into his mug. 

 

•••

 

 


End file.
